


Fashion For Aliens

by bloodscout



Series: 18 incredibly impressive ficlets written for the 18th birthday of the frighteningly fabulous fishoutofcustard [9]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Earth, Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two hours in, The Doctor decides he hates Marks & Spencer. The man at the door had criticised his bowtie, and threatened to call security when the time lord asked if they accepted doubloons from Hamingarr Delta, the pirate constellation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fashion For Aliens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lucie (fishoutofcustard)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lucie+%28fishoutofcustard%29).



> This is the ninth fic of the 18 fics I wrote for [Lucie's](fishoutofcustard.tumblr.com) 18th birthday. All fics following this one were written from 5pm to 11pm the night before I gave Lucie the present, so don't expect greatness.

‘C’mon, Doctor, it’s too hot for tweed.’ Amy tells him, Scottish vowels wrapping around him, friendly and teasing.

‘It’s too cold without!’ he exclaims, distressed. He has no idea what to do.

‘Do you have anything _else_ , then?’ Amy asks, sprawling over the chair at the console.

The Doctor huffs. ‘Nothing that will go with this bowtie.’

Amy rolls her eyes, expression the picture of the long suffering friend. ‘Guess we better go shopping then.

The Doctor barely has the time to squeak out a confused ‘Shopping?’ before Amy is dragging him out of the TARDIS doors and into the streets of London.

 

Two hours in, The Doctor decides he hates Marks & Spencer. The man at the door had criticised his bowtie, and threatened to call security when the time lord asked if they accepted doubloons from Hamingarr Delta, the pirate constellation.

‘Ooh look, Amy!’ the Doctor cries, and holds up a bright orange sweater.

Amy rolls her eyes. ‘Orange is not a fashion colour.’ She tells him, and it feels like a well-worn argument.

The Doctor raises his eyes to the ceiling. ‘The citrus hermits of Kappa 9 would disagree.’ he mutters. Amy obviously hears him, because she glares.

‘No orange.’ she decrees, and puts the offending sweater back on the rack. She instead proffers a vest. ‘How about this?’

The Doctor picks at the shoulders of the vest, making a face. ‘It has no sleeves.’ he says, like anyone else would say “it’s oozing green slime”. ‘Where did the sleeves go?’

Amy sighs laboriously. ‘It’s not _meant_ to have sleeves. It’s a _sleeveless_ vest.’

The Doctor surreptitiously flashes his sonic at the vest, but Amy slaps it away.

‘No, they’re not disguised with a schimmer or whatever you call it.’

‘Shimmer.’ The Doctor repeats, like he’s making a point.

Amy nods. ‘Yeah, that’s what I said. Schimmer.’

The Doctor starts to protest, but Amy is already heading to a new section, sweater dress trailing behind her.

 

It is another three hours and three other shops later that Amy gives up. ‘That’s it!’ she cries, and flops onto a chair. ‘You are impossible to dress!’

The Doctor thinks that perhaps he’s just not meant to shop on Earth. If you ask him, aliens have a much better fashion sense. There is an entire planet whose main export is tweed.

He has a permanent holiday house there.

They are heading back to the TARDIS when the Doctor stops Amy, grabbing her shoulder, and pulling her back to press their faces against a shop window. Inside are dozens of brightly coloured, lustrously patterned, perfectly cut-

‘Cardigans.’ Amy says disbelievingly, face smushed against the glass. ‘You want _cardigans_.’

The Doctor nods emphatically, abnormally large forehead squeaking on the window.

‘Right-o, space boy, hurry up.’ Amy sighs, dragging him into the store.

She is not surprised when the Doctor hands her a rainbow of cardigans – everything except for orange, thank god – but at least he won’t have to wear that awful tweed all the time.

 

~

 

‘Wake up, Amy!’ the Doctor calls, shaking her awake. ‘We have important things to do today!’ he cries, not unlike a child at Christmas. ‘Sontarans lost on a planet of potato farmers, it’s really very urgent.’

Amy scrubs her eyes and blinks them open.

She instantly wishes she hadn’t. The Doctor is standing in front of her, wearing his most hideous cardigan. It’s such a bright fluorescent pink that it’s almost blinding, and clashes with _everything_. He is also wearing a lime green bow tie, that, just like the cardigan, is impossible to match with anything.

And, on top of it all, is that horrid, horrid plague on her existence – the tweed jacket.

Amy really should have expected it, honestly.


End file.
